Bloodlust
by TanuKyle
Summary: Crack pairing, NOT a crack fic. Giftfic. Hidan is unable to die. Madara is unable to live. A chance meeting over a wailing cat in an alley, half-dead and dying, catches the man and boy by surprise. AU.


Click. Click-click-click.

The shutter on the camera takes in the scene, flickering as it shuts again and again, the flash momentarily reflecting in the glassed eyes of the corpse on the floor. Blood stains the carpet and walls, even the ceiling is not untouched, splattered with the wild spurting.A large knife, serrated and vicious, likely the one that caused the deep, jagged cuts across the boys wrists, lies near an outstretched hand.

Hidan will call the painting "Yearning for Redemption." A beautifully accurate, disturbing, hauntingly heart-aching expression on the dead boy's face, who looks, albeit with a few minor differences - enough to fool the casual eye, not dissimilair to the painter himself. A painting who is closer to his own feelings than he will ever admit.

A few minutes later, the corpse, which had been clinically dead a few minutes ago, dead in every way, sat up. The wounds are still open, but as a hand, pale and slender, delicate and beautiful even as crimson liquid drips down it, pinches the skin together, it melds beautifully, leaving not even a scar to mark the smooth expanse of porcelain. The same is done with each wrist, and the tiny nicks on his fingers from the blade have already sealed. A smile, filled to the brim with psychotic glee, breaks out, and laughter echoes through the blood-drenched studio room as the corpse, the living dead, grins manically.

The studio is secluded. The placement is far from the nearest town, a half-hour drive into wilderness. He enjoys it here. Here, where each shot of a camera captures the pain of death. Where each time he dies, he can shudder with pleasure, nobody seeing it. Where death is a choice, not an experiment.

And the stench of blood fills the place, overwhelming and strong, for no matter how many times he cleans it, he dirties it again just as fast. So much blood has stained this place over the years. Each room is still a stark white, the endless expanse of colourless is calming. As he develops each photo by hand, the only coloured room in the whole studio, the darkroom lit by red light, a dreamlike smile is on his face. His hands are focused. Skilled. In all sorts of things, those hands.

In burns, in whips, in scythes, in swords, in knifes and daggers, in bows and arrows in every weapon the world could provide. In his own way, it was his way of fighting back. He could never die. His father's use of him had chosen him that path. It had started off easy enough. He had been trained since birth, trained to fight and not give up. But his natural build had not aided him. Svelte was a polite way to put it. There was never any politeness. Weak. It was drilled into him. Be normal in public. But at home, in the training grounds, be vicious. Be a killer. Never show weakness not once.

He loved it. There was no doubt about that. His father, Jashin, was almost like a God to him. He was the epitome of everything Hidan wanted to be. Violent, Angry, Psychopathic – he saw all these sides of his father in private. Calm, Stoic, Disarming. He saw those in public. Either way, the man was ruthless. Hidan had wanted to be ruthless too. So he took himself to Orochimaru, his father's scientist. He told him his plans, asked if he had anything. Hidan didn't regret that pain. It was to be the start of many. It was an addiction. A burning addiction . An addiction to pain, to hatred, to everything about it. To death itself, forever out of his reach.

Hidan was immortal. Last year, he had stopped aging, as the potion finally took full stuck at 21. Forever and ever. He'd grown not a millimetre, aged not a day. Smooth, hairless skin, which it had been ever since he took the concoction, was pale and perfect, untouched by calluses, even though he trained daily. Hands, slender and thin, had a pinching grip not betrayed by his outward appearance. For now, they gripped at the door handle, quickly stepping out, a secret, happy smile on his face as he shut the door to his developing photographs. He would come back tomorrow to finish the job.

He stepped outside, into the night. It was dark, moon shining down, glinting off the pendant that hung round his neck. The symbol of his clan. He tucked in beneath a dark trenchcoat's buckled collar as he buckled himself into the garment. Underneath, the blood had been washed off his skin, once again smooth, untainted. If only you could say the same for his mind. That was beyond repair. A pair of sinfully tight leather pants and a mesh shirt completed the ensemble. Dangerous. That was the word to describe the man.

But dangerous didn't even come close.

--

Those hands were skilled at other things too though. Painting, drawing, sculpting. All of these skills were excercised at his degree course, and two weeks after the original course was started, he was told that it was pointless for him – his skills were too advanced for this course. He was put among older artists, studying for a…what was it? PHD? Something along those lines, anyway. The others hated him. He knew it. Young, skilled, powerful connections and always impeccably dressed, Hidan was what they all dreamed of. Little did they know of his nighttime occupation. Or how sometimes, fleetingly, he wished he was them…able to live their life as artists, instead of assassins.

The motorbike did not roar, or rumble, or anything like that. It was as silent as the night air around them, unnaturally still and quiet, for animals had long learned that the isolated hut was bad news.

He pulled away, tires gripping the road and a smooth exit into the night as he headed towards the destination. No headlights marked his passage, and he traversed the practically empty roads with skill, eyes accustomed to darkness. After all, it was his ally. Hidan graced nobody with the word friend.

Tonight his target was one of the Uchicha clan, a small boy named Nai. Even most assasin's strayed away from killing children. Hidan had no such qualms. There pain was more acute, more wholehearted than that of adults, that of those who tried to be strong. It was a beautiful sensation, to feel a child's pain. He pulled up outside the spacious mansion, secluded in the hills. They were a minor branch of the powerful family, and Hidan had no idea why his father wanted him killed, but he didn't care. I mean, he knew the Reli and the Uchicha did not get on well, but this branch was tiny, nothing to do with the conflict. But he didn't care. The chance to kill, the chance to feel pain…he relished it.

The conflict. Both above and below the table, the families were at war. By day, abhorrent to their true nature,the Reli ran a hugely successful hospital and pharmaceutical company. By night, a drugs and serum business, selling illegal drugs on the street. The real danger lay in the second half however. Serums. Serums to make you stronger. Serums to give you animalistic features. Serums, in short, that made the impossible, possible.

But the truly impossible lay yet out of reach. Immortality. They all wanted it. And yet the only one who had it, was simply an accident. Hidan had gone to the snake to become powerful, to take a serum that would give him something to make him strong. But Hidan was yet a child, and children are always a cause of accidents – especially genetically defective ones. He tripped, banging into a case, smashing through the glass, impaling himself. The snake screamed. Not for the blood, not for the boy. But for the punishment his father would inflict.

Serums seeped, blue, green, yellow, pink, artificial colours, unnaturally bright, melding with his blood. As Orochimaru panicked, plucking out the glass, trying to bring the boy back to life…he smiled. "Fucker. Ya couldn't tell me to be careful?" He sat up. Orochimaru went pale, wondering if this was some kind of elaborate punishment – if this wasn't real. Hidan stood up. Child's body drenched in blood, he grinned. "It hurts damnit. But it feels good…"

Hidan shook his head, clearing the thoughts from his head. A slow, lazy smile worked its way onto his features. He hadn't thought about that in a long time. His bloodlust increased, he began to scale the walls of the mansion, slipping past the meagre guards, into the childs room. He stood, propped against the wall, observing the slow rise and fall of the pale-skinned boy. "Bastard. Wake up." His voice was a low drawl, disrespect clear in his voice.

The boy awoke. Hidan stepped forward.

Screams brought the guards running. But it was too late. The only thing left was the strange symbol of Jashin, painted on the floor. And blood. Lots of blood.

Hidan whistled happily, as he stalked through the streets of the city. He had done his job, but he wanted more, wanted so much more. His eyes shone red, the usual pinkish orbs dark. He wanted more. He wanted so much more…


End file.
